


Merry Ambreigns-mas!

by cookiethewriter



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 25 Days of Chrismuts, Hoo boy here we go, Light BDSM, M/M, Slight Dom/Sub, Spanking, bottom!Dean, making out in an elevator, top!roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/pseuds/cookiethewriter
Summary: The thing of it was, Dean was getting more and more restless the closer it got to the holidays, and knowing him for - give or take - five years had equipped Roman with the knowledge on how to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was for tox-moxley (on Tumblr)'s 25 Days of Chrismuts. I had the 18th, but I actually -finished- it at the beginning of December, lol. (Fun fact: if I hadn't queued up the fic on Tumblr, I would have never posted it because my memory is shite. ;D) 
> 
> (Also, I'm still not good at titles. Oh well. Don't boo my terrible title, boo my dumb Ambreigns-trashy ass.)
> 
> Merry almost-Christmas, y'all!

The thing of it was, Dean was getting more and more restless the closer it got to the holidays, and knowing him for - give or take - five years had equipped Roman with the knowledge on how to help. At first, he wasn’t sure when this knowledge would have ever come in handy, because when it came to the angry mouthpiece of the Shield, he was fairly good at cloaking his discomfort in his usual abrasiveness, dulling it with booze and worming his way into either Rollins’ or, more recently, Roman’s bed and letting it fade into the night.

But Rollins hadn’t been there last Christmas, or the months leading up to this one. And Roman… well, he’d had to get creative, when the usual tactics weren’t working.

It all starts with that jerk of his neck, like his ears are waterlogged, less like a twitch and more like some sort of mild convulsion. Roman, ever the Ambrose expert, walks over and runs his hands over his head, pulling some hair back on a second comb-through, and the action seems to draw its usual response: a sort of breathless noise, not desperate, but pleading, but as always his throat doesn’t want him to utter a sound. And it always tugs the same slow smile out of Roman, how he can affect him this much with barely anything at all, before he ruffles his hair, letting his nails scratch against his scalp.

“I’m almost done. Just a little longer.”

He’s packing away their suitcases when the pacing starts. Touch can only stimulate so much before this gets unbearable for Dean, and no matter what he says, Roman’s positive it’s best to just get outta here, drive back to their hotel room, and deal with this the way only he truly knows how.

Water from his post-match shower drops down his thick sweatshirt - the one that is actually Roman’s, but is so warm and smells like him and is just about the only thing keeping him sane, it seems - and swings around in a halo around his head as Dean spins away to take his spot in the passenger’s seat; he is probably fine to drive, but he doesn’t know which hotel they’re going to, and with all his body is trying to do at once, he might end up drifting distractedly to the side of the road, body on fire and prickling where Roman’s touch lingers-

Such is not the case, by the time they finally get onto the road, traffic backed up and making the air electric around them. Dean’s murmur of “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me here” nearly goes unnoticed, and in typical Roman fashion, he reaches over and clasps a large hand onto the juncture where Dean’s neck and shoulder met, holding firm.

“The hotel’s not far, D. Why don’t you pick the station, hm?”

He says it as if Dean isn’t _always_ the one picking the radio station, but just about everything is playing Christmas music, but he manages to land on Bing Crosby’s _White Christmas_ and sings the words along with it, fingers tapping on his thighs, trying to let his energy expel through his fingertips. Traffic moves slow, but it’s moving, and it’s just about all that’s keeping Dean together.

The hotel isn’t one of those shabby little ‘one-night’ kinda deals - Roman had booked them a room at a nearby Holiday Inn, decorated for Christmas, lights glittering in the night … and, when had it started snowing? Pondering this, Roman steps out of the car once he’s parked it in one of the remaining spaces, bumping Dean’s leg as if he needs motivation to get out of the car, and goes back to grab their bags.

Dean grabs his. He isn’t totally useless, just… scattered.

* * *

After getting the room key and making their way to the elevator, Dean starts standing closer to Roman, bouncing slightly in place, finding every excuse to expel a little more energy before they get to the room, and the latter notices with a smirk before the elevator opens with a _Ping!_

Dean steps in first, drops his suitcases unceremoniously onto the ground, and Roman follows, putting it to the side and reaching out to press the button for their floor. The elevator doors close, and they’re alone, and thick arms cage in an unsuspecting Ambrose before he tilts his head down a little, eyeing Roman as if he was prey despite it being the opposite.

Roman’s left hand reaches out, rakes his nails through his hair, watches how quickly the other moves with the action, head rolling in whichever direction he’s being moved in, tongue poking out between his lips, and perhaps it says something about his self-control, but Roman can’t help but lean in and leave a burning kiss on those pink lips, kissing until they’re dark and swollen, suddenly feeling hard and heavy as his other hand trails down to cup the other through his jeans.

The choked noise that escapes Dean is symphonic, amplified by a pull of his hair, and when his groin presses forward into Roman’s hand, what he feels there is no less surprising as it is incredibly hot, and when Roman pushes back, keeping him locked under his body, the kisses become searing and Dean’s fingers curl into Roman’s thin coat.

This is the Dean Ambrose nobody knew about, buried underneath years of neglect and grit and blood. Putty in the hands of someone who cared about him - because the ‘l’ word isn’t right for them, doesn’t encompass them completely, is scary to say sometimes - despite the battles that wage inside him between head and heart.

They barely notice when they get to their floor, but when Dean pushes away from the wall, Roman deems him sated and looks back to see the doors opening, and he retrieves his suitcases and angles his head in an _After you_ , waiting for Dean to sway his way out of the elevator and to their room, lust-drunk.

* * *

Getting into their room - Dean fumbles with the key card in his haste, the poor guy - is just as hectic as getting here had been, but by the time their suitcases are set aside and Roman starts taking off his winter clothes (a light jacket, a scarf he’d been tricked into taking by Jericho) while he hears Dean doing the same, tossing his jacket near the little closet and fumbling with the laces of his boots.

Roman is over him in a second, and blue eyes look up, a mix of needy and defiant, like he is daring Roman to make a move and needing him to. His large hands grab Dean - just a little taller, but in these moments, he seems much smaller - and lead him over to the single bed, pushing him onto it, and said, “Who’s callin’ the shots tonight?”

“You,” it’s mostly air, that word, but it feels much heavier. “Need you to… tuh…

“It’s okay.” And it is. “I know you do. Get undressed.”

And he does, too, hands jerky and impatient, pulling his gray souvenir tee shirt off followed by unbuckling his jeans and slipping them off; he’s hard in his briefs, which Roman notes with a hint of satisfaction, a smile tilting his lips up, and he leans in to capture his lips once more, adding teeth, biting just hard enough that it makes Dean’s body arch and writhe.

But he’s undressed, down to his underwear, and Roman’s still fully so in his jeans and tee. Pulling from Dean’s lips and leaving nips and scrapes of his beard he hasn’t yet trimmed, he growls close to the others ear, low, dangerous. But the hitch in Dean’s breath is anything but scared.

“Undress me.”

Dean’s never had an easy time listening to commands, but when it came to Roman, he was like a different person. Long fingers undo the button on Roman’s jeans, start slipping them down his thighs before his other hand is moving to lift up his tee shirt, simultaneously pulling up and pushing down until Roman’s dark-wash jeans pool at his ankles - exposing his boner under his boxers, a little sensitive all thanks to their previous intimacies - and then reaching behind him to pull the fabric over the back of his head and off his arms.

He took shirts off real weird, but… that’s Dean.

They’re both equally undressed now, and Roman steps out of his jeans and kicks them away before he leads Dean onto the bed with a push, giggling quietly when his chest heaves in anticipation before he turns away and grabs the discarded scarf from before. It’s cotton, not silk like the others, and he smiles before he nods towards Ambrose’s hands. “Give me your hands, babe.”

And he did, even pressing them together wrist to wrist while Roman wrapped the scarf around his hands before cinching it up in a bow. He presses his lips down to each knuckle, each finger, then leans back and helps him sit further up the bed so his head rests on the pillow.

Dean’s the best-looking Christmas present, he muses, smirk in place before he sits back and peels off his underwear, slipping it off his legs. Leaning down, teeth and lips in equal measure, Roman mouths at his hips, across his flat belly, sucking marks into his flesh before he bites down to his thighs, avoiding all the areas he knows Dean wants to be touched.

Breathless sounds escape him, which Roman loves to hear, as each mark left behind drives him wild, assurances that whatever Roman is doing he’s doing it right. Words don’t need to be shared, not when it comes to this, because the price of doing this for so long is that whoever has the reins that night _knows_ the little signals each makes, has memorized the lines and dips of his brother-turned-lover and what to do with them.

When Roman’s mouth is where Dean wants it, he bucks, but Roman is not about that. “Nuh-uh, D. Not yet.” A breathless groan, then a glare, and another giggle. “Turn over.” Huff, does as he’s told, leans on his elbows and spreads his thighs. “Good.” Raking nails down his lover’s back, hearing that hiss, it does things to him. From the top of his spine down to the dimples in his lower back, it draws quiet little noises out of Dean, and before long, Roman’s already got what’s next in mind, hand poised on a butt cheek, pliant in his hands. “Color.”

“Green.”

“Good,” he says again, low and possessive, before he says “Count.”

_Slap!_

It takes a good five solid slaps (and Roman’s no slouch, either, he’s giving some good cracks) to Dean’s ass before his voice is hoarse, gravel in his throat, hips starting to move. One ass cheek the right shade of red, Roman switches to the other, giving another five slaps, and Dean’s panting, sniffling, probably wiping his face into his arm because tears are slipping through. With both hands, Roman squeezes, rubs, soothes the fire-red pain away, leaning in to bite each cheek and leaning back to gander at his handiwork.

“Please, Ro. C’mon.”

And Roman can’t resist, when Dean’s voice is a little higher like that, crackling, and he leans in to tongue at Dean’s hole, long licks until he can slip it and a finger inside, then two. He has to spit, once, crooks his fingers and croons how good Dean is being, before he spits another time. When Dean’s stretched enough, saliva and sweat in equal measure making his ass shine in the dim luminescent lights, Roman pulls back and goes to his bag to pull out a small bottle of lube.

They’d stopped using condoms forever ago.

Dean’s back is littered with angry red scratch marks, not deep or bleeding, but a contrast to his pale skin and Roman’s smirking again, fighting the urge to kiss against it. Slipping off his boxers and groaning as the fabric creates a delicious friction as it slides over his erection, he squeezes some lube onto it and fists his dick, coating it until it glistens, and he knee-walks his way behind Dean and presses insistently against him. “Color.”

“Green. So fuckin’ green. Fuck-me-for-the-love-of- _God_ green.”

“As you wish.”

Sliding into Dean is like opening the door to his childhood home and smelling cookies baking, and they both groan, Roman setting a large palm on Dean’s shoulder to steady himself as the pace he sets draws breath out of his lungs and ignites the flush that’s burst on Dean’s face and chest. Dean wants to hold onto Roman, but his hands are tied, _literally._ Noticing his want for something to hold onto, Roman slides his arm around Dean’s stomach, lifting him up so they’re chest to back, and watches his head fall back on Roman’s shoulder.

This angle is one they both like, and after he moves his hands to hold Dean’s waist in a bruising grip, Roman pushes deep, maintaining as much contact as possible and breathing out “ _Fuuh-_ ” when Dean starts bouncing. They’re both breathless, Dean’s voice cutting through the quiet, making sounds more than words as he moves over Roman’s dick.

Their mouths crash together, lips and teeth, Dean biting into Roman’s bottom lip until he tastes copper and it makes a sound similar to a roar escape him as the pace changes. More manic, more Ambrose-like, and if he weren’t currently trying to keep from screaming Dean probably would have been grinning in pride, because he’s tainted Roman _this much_. They both fall to the bed, and Roman cums first, riding out his climax with jerks and gripping onto Dean’s hips before he reaches forward to jerk Dean off, barely getting his fingers wrapped around his shaft when he hears Dean’s choked sob.

He’s trembling, pushed back flush against Roman, before his soft laughter is broken with pants.

Roman pulls out, rubs his thumb against the rim of Dean’s hole, before he crawls up to lie beside Dean who rolls onto his back and holds his hands against his chest. “That… that was fu- fuckin’ hot.”

Roman’s smile is wide, showing teeth, and he leans over to kiss Dean’s forehead before he reaches over and unties his hands. “I was gonna do more, but that’s the first time in a while you came that hard.”

Once his hands are free, Dean looks up slightly at Roman, something smoldering in his eyes, “Well, whaddya expect?” Almost as quickly as he could leer, he shifts, half-laying over Roman’s body with his arm stretched over his tan chest, fingers idly tracing a design in his tattoo. “You could write a book with how to properly fuck somebody.”

“ _How to Train Your Ambrose,_ ” Roman recites, sounding almost philosophical, and giggling when Dean groans into his chest. Reaching down with his arm, he cups one of his red ass cheeks, rubbing his thumb on the flushed flesh before he sighs. “I dunno if that’d sell well.”

“Whaddya talkin’ about? Best seller right there.” They’ve entered the post-fuck stage where Dean, despite his best efforts to deny it, has started nuzzling against Roman, huddling up against the warmth of his skin, before the latter maneuvers them both so that he can wipe the head of Dean’s dick carefully as well as his thighs, which has drying cum between them, with the cotton scarf.

(He’ll have to either wash it and hope for the best, or just toss it, but he hopes it’s not a Christmas present…)

Satisfied they’re both clean, Roman leans down to cover them with the top blanket, smiling big as Dean gets comfortable pressed up right into his side, arm over his chest and one leg hooked between both of his. He mutters something under his breath, muddled with sleep, but it isn’t like Roman couldn’t understand; there’s a reason his book’s title was about his best friend. Pressing his nose right into his sex-warm temple, he leaves lazy, lingering presses of lips on his forehead before murmuring back.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”


End file.
